


three worn words

by wild_once



Category: Inception (2010)
Genre: Angst, Birthday, Fluff, Idiots in Love, M/M, Mutual Pining, Not Beta Read, POV Alternating, Post-Canon, Pre-Canon
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-27
Updated: 2021-02-27
Packaged: 2021-03-18 22:28:57
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,093
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29740839
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/wild_once/pseuds/wild_once
Summary: In my youthThe greatest tide washed up my prize: youTen years of birthdays and twenty of pining.
Relationships: Arthur/Eames (Inception)
Comments: 6
Kudos: 54





	three worn words

It starts with a cupcake. An innocuous, vanilla cupcake with enough sugar in its frosting to set Arthur’s teeth on edge. Not that it’s difficult -- his teeth are already sensitive from clenching them through the most mind-numbingly amazing blowjob of his _life_ (thanks, Eames). Birthday or not, Eames always aims to please him. 

Sprawled on a cheap duvet in New Orleans, Arthur feels somewhat better about entering his third decade. The sun rises steadily as the leaking air-conditioning unit above the door whirs into life. He stretches out on his stomach and lets the sweat dry tacky against the small of his back and the crooks of his knees. He curls his toes and rubs his cheek back and forth on the scratchy fabric beneath him. 

Eames kneels at the foot of the bed with a cupcake in his hand. His wet lips are stretched in a brilliant smile. ‘Go on then,’ he says, ‘make a wish.’

There’s no candle to blow out, but Arthur plays along. He wishes like he dreams: logically, orderly, and plausibly. All the evidence he has points to him being able to make it to thirty-one, so when he closes his eyes and purses his lips to blow out a gentle stream of air, he indulges himself in thoughts of making it past thirty-one and beyond.

Arthur takes the cupcake from Eames and licks the frosting off; savours the tangy sweetness on his tongue and Eames bends down to kiss it from his mouth. His hair tickles Arthur’s nose -- it’s longer than normal, much longer since the last time Arthur had it knotted between his fingers and Arthur kind of loves how Eames either has to part it and brush it into place or slick it back entirely to get it to behave (and no, not just because Eames will have to borrow his pomade to tame it).

‘Is nothing sacred,’ Arthur deadpans. He runs his index finger through the last of the icing and sucks his finger into his mouth. ‘You’re not even meant to be here. Let me eat my cake in peace.’

‘Course I am,’ Eames says with a knowing look. ‘Couldn’t let you spend your thirtieth all alone, could I?’ He flops down next to Arthur and rolls on his back, exhausted. 

The truth of it is this: Arthur left a lazy trail for Eames to dutifully follow, and that’s why he turned up at Arthur’s hotel room door at three in the morning clutching a vanilla cupcake in one hand and a bottle of vodka in the other. 

‘Happy birthday!’ Eames had said, shaking the bottle excitedly. ‘Though I suppose it’s not actually your birthday anymore. Christ, I’m tired. I was meant to be here hours ago. Nevermind.’

Arthur woke up five hours later to find Eames sprawled on top of the duvet in a well-loved Ramones t-shirt and a pair of tartan sleeping pants, smelling shower fresh, and with his hair dried completely flat on one side.

When Arthur slid his hand down the firm swell of his ass and up again under his shirt, Eames cracked one eye open and grinned lazily. ‘Not a dream, darling,’ he had said. ‘I really am here.’

And Arthur rolled his eyes and leaned in to kiss his wicked mouth that promised him everything and nothing all at once. 

*

It becomes a thing between them after New Orleans, the birthday thing. The result of a couple of criminals who love to fool around and have a maddening desire to spend their money on people other than themselves, Arthur supposes. That and the persistent and looming threat of being shot, or stabbed or worse - - losing it completely.

*

The year Arthur turns thirty is the year Eames turns thirty-four. Arthur finds him in Iceland, and though Arthur had always pictured seeing The Northern Lights alone, he finds having Eames wrapped up beside him is more than fine. Arthur finds having Eames grinding on his lap in a hot tub overlooking the Fjords even better. 

Arthur likes the way their breath mingles in the night air, sending up ghosts of memories into the atmosphere. He likes the openness on Eames’ face, the way his eyes are soft in a way he hasn’t seen since they first met. Arthur can still picture Eames in his flight suit with his close-cropped hair. He was cold then -- it took him more than four pints to warm up and soften to Arthur’s eager lines of questioning. Arthur had always wanted to know what it was like to fly a jet, he told Eames as much while pushing his horn-rimmed glasses up the bridge of his nose, and Eames had plucked them off his face and grabbed him by the hand to drag him to a bunker on their base.

In a dark room, Eames hooked Arthur’s wrist up to a first-gen PASIV and told him to close his eyes. Arthur lay there in the darkness wondering what he’d gotten himself into when he felt the brush of lips against his ear. Eames’ rich voice said, ‘Time to get your wings’ and Arthur has been flying ever since.

*

Eames meets Arthur in Florence when he turns thirty-two. He transforms into the quintessential tourist because he knows Arthur loves it (even if he’d rather die than admit it), and only packs linen suits so he can tut about the creases when he hangs them up. He insists on carrying a paper map everywhere they go and has no qualms about swatting Arthur about the back of the head with it when he thinks he isn’t paying attention to his dramatic readings of the labels in the Uffizi. 

Eames doesn’t miss the glint in Arthur’s eye, nor the way he purses his lips to stave off a smirk as he shifts into flawless Italian when he orders dinner for them both. He’s showboating a bit, of course -- Arthur brings out the performer in him -- but his desire to make Arthur happy has evolved into a compulsion over the years. These days he can barely remember a time where the flash of Arthur’s dimples didn’t make his stomach swoop in the most ridiculous way. It’s an addiction, that feeling, dangerous and --

‘Are you listening to me?’ 

Arthur’s words pull Eames from his reverie. He shakes his head and shoves a dripping forkful of trofie into his mouth. ‘Sorry, away with the fairies.’

‘You’re away with something.’ Arthur frowns. ‘I was saying I want to drive to Pisa tomorrow but if you don’t want to --’

‘Sounds lovely,’ Eames interrupts, ‘I’ve always wanted to take one of those pictures… you know, where it looks like I’m holding up the Leaning Tower.’

Arthur scoffs in disgust and Eames winks back. 

Later, in their hotel overlooking the Arno, Eames puts his uncomfortable feelings to use and draws the most delicious moans out of Arthur as he fucks him against the wall of their suite. Arthur’s arms are looped around his shoulders, his sweaty fingertips digging into and slipping around the muscles that are burning from holding Arthur up and open for him. Arthur’s head lolls with every thrust and Eames follows him in the darkness to kiss and steady him. He rests his lips against Arthur’s mouth, pants _careful, careful_ when Arthur’s head slips back and thumps against the wall. He takes it all, drives Arthur as mad as he’s been driven over the years, and doesn’t let up when he feels Arthur come with a shudder.

Tomorrow, Arthur will spend all day complaining about his bruised back and all night willing Eames to work his tongue up the notches of his spine. 

Tomorrow, Eames’ body will curse him from the moment he gets behind the wheel of their rented Fiat but the strain in his muscles will serve as an elegant reminder of how deep and unapologetically Arthur is under his skin. 

*

There are a few times, sometimes after close-calls, and sometimes after a perfectly ordinary job wrap up that Arthur thinks _maybe._

Sometimes when they’re laying side-by-side, satisfied and wet between the thighs, and Eames runs the tips of his fingers up and down Arthur’s stomach until he’s shivering he thinks _what if._

Or when they’re pulling an all-nighter and Eames squeezes the back of Arthur’s neck in plain sight and Arthur thinks he’d quite like the feeling of Eames’ hands on him when he’s making dinner or folding his laundry, too. 

Or when it’s been a few months and Eames calls him to boast about pickpocketing someone who cut in front of him in a queue and ends up talking his ear off for half the afternoon that Arthur thinks… _this feels different_.

These are all the times the _what-ifs_ and _maybes_ he should say are resting on the tip of his tongue.

A _do you think_ almost slips out during a job in Montreal when they’re walking side by side down Rue Sainte-Catherine but Eames catches a bullet in the thigh mid-conversation and drops on the icy sidewalk with a nauseating crunch before Arthur can work up the courage. 

It’s when Arthur’s down on his knees pressing his thousand-dollar scarf to the pulsing hole in Eames’ leg and soothing Eames with words he still can’t remember to this day that he understands _maybes_ are better off left unsaid.

*

And so it goes for years. 

In between birthdays, there are more jobs, a thousand missed connections and dozens of blazing rows (or heated disagreements, depending on who you ask) but birthdays are sacred ground on which good times _only_ are permitted. 

The Zero Photographic Evidence rule is relaxed -- but only just: no one _needs_ to see Arthur in heart-shaped sunglasses, but Eames might _want_ to once in a while.

The Absolutely No Gifts Rule is ironclad. 

*

(The heart-shaped sunglasses were forced onto Arthur’s face at a club in Berlin. He has no memory of who put them there or why he let Eames take a picture of him sprawled across the outstretched arms of three women wearing dollar-store veils. 

What Arthur does remember is the way Eames laughed when those same women dropped him because they couldn’t work out how to gracefully lower him to the ground. He remembers the way the sun was peeking over the horizon as walked sideways back to their hotel. Finding a just-opened bakery and buying too many Brötchen. The way Eames’ mouth tasted like fresh bread. How those cheap sunglasses fogged up when Eames went on kissing him right there in the middle of the waking street like he couldn’t get enough of him. 

It’s been six years since Berlin, but those sunglasses still live in Arthur’s nightstand as an unremarkable reminder of what it felt like to be happy.)

*

(... The Absolutely No Gifts Rule sticks until Eames turns forty.)

Eames tells Arthur that seeing the Patagonian Glaciers has always been a dream of his. In reality, he had thrown a dart at the map and let fate guide him because, in the end, he didn’t care where he ended up as long as Arthur was by his side grumbling about the cold or the heat and if Eames were able to he would devote his life to finding a temperature Arthur likes. Arthur complains about things not even invented yet and it drives Eames mad in a way that compels him to encourage Arthur until he’s red in the face with frustration and tripping over his words.

They’re adrift on a day cruise the day Eames turns forty. Eames leans against the ship’s rail and admires the beauty around him. Pink-with-the-cold Arthur fidgets next to him, tugging at his lifejacket in irritation and muttering, ‘I hate this. I hate it so much.’

Eames laughs. Arthur scowls and grits his teeth. Eames bumps him with his shoulder. ‘Safety first, darling.’ He pulls Arthur to him by a dangling strap and, still shaking with laughter, kisses the rosy skin of his cheekbone. 

Arthur leans into Eames’ lips and sighs. ‘I have a confession,’ he says.

‘Oh?’ Eames replies, curious and guarded. 

Arthur forces his hand under his lifejacket and into his jacket pocket. ‘I know we said no gifts.’ He pulls out a small notebook and presses it into Eames’ palm. ‘I feel dishonest not telling you not where you can find me when we’re not just meeting to’ — Arthur motions between them with his hands — ‘do this. Whatever this is.’ Arthur smoothes down the front of Eames’ life jacket. Focuses on the straps and buckles when he says, ‘Neither of us are getting any younger.’

Eames’ heart does that thing where it feels like all the blood being pumped into it is bubbling. Like his ventricles are fluttering. He shields the thick paper from the breeze and thumbs through the pages. Finds Arthur’s name and a set of coordinates on a dog-eared page.

‘Especially you. Hence writing it down.’

‘Cheeky fucker.’ Eames smiles and tucks the notebook away in the safety of his jacket. He turns Arthur and presses him against the rail so he can wrap himself around him from behind. It’s awkward with the padded bulk between them, but Eames can nose the hair behind Arthur’s ear and kiss the soft skin there. ‘At least we’re getting older, Arthur,’ he whispers earnestly, and sees Arthur’s cheek dimple as he smiles.

*

Every bone in Eames’ body screams at him to burn the notebook -- sentimentality has killed more cunning men than Arthur, and slippier men than himself -- but against all better judgement he rents a safe deposit box and tucks it away behind a couple of gold bars he’s still saving for his rainy day. 

His rainy day is something like this: he turns up at Arthur’s door and slips into his life with a wink and a lazy grin. They chat about nothing in particular because there’s no hurry, and they sleep late because they can afford to. 

But he isn’t right for days when he sees Arthur shoot himself out of dreamscapes, and he can’t quell the nausea when he wakes up before Arthur and sees him lifeless and prone. Eames thinks of Mal, and how Cobb will never recover -- can never recover -- from the loss of her. He imagines a time in the not-so-distant future when he’s not quite slick enough to dodge a bad hand and the look on Arthur’s face when a friend of a friend of a colleague has to deliver the news. 

It’s the kick back to reality he needs, and the one he holds onto every time he thinks _maybe_.

*

Arthur barely sees or hears from Eames the year he turns thirty-eight (something about deep-cover in Mozambique, his message was coded and unclear). The week they grab together in Provence is a last-minute decision hastily arranged by Eames.

Arthur is in awe of the farmhouse as soon as he pulls up outside of it and already knows he’s going to struggle to leave it -- not because of the beautiful stonework or the promise of a pool behind the gate, but because of the way Eames is waiting expectantly by the gate at the end of the dusty driveway, sleeves rolled up and apron on. 

Arthur’s smile fades as he approaches. He eyes the pink, torn up skin on Eames’ neck warily and curses the sewn together skin kissing the edge of Eames’ hairline. He chooses to hold his worry in favour of pressing their mouths together. He drops his luggage when Eames clutches the hair at the base of his skull, opens his mouth to suck on Eames’ tongue and nip at his bruised bottom lip.

It’s been too long.

That night, with his legs pushed to his chest, Arthur begs. Eames eats him out like it’s going out of style and he begs for Eames to stop, to never stop. Begs to be fucked. Whines when Eames keeps teasing him and ghosts his lips along the inside of his thighs, settling to bite the soft skin there until it’s bruised and tender. Arthur nearly screams when Eames takes pity on him and slides his cock as deep as he can go. He grabs at Eames blindly and pulls him down to rest his lips against his skin as he’s jolted up the bed by the force of Eames’ thrusts. Eames’ fingers tighten in the crooks of Arthur’s knees, nails biting and digging into the tendons and Arthur cries out, overwhelmed and out of control. Eames’ glassy eyes lock with his and Arthur comes staring up at the beat-up face of the only man he’d take a bullet for. It isn’t long until Eames is coming inside of him with a strangled, bitten-off cry.

The aftermath is quiet. Arthur runs his fingers over the skin of Eames’ neck and tuts. Eames smiles and kisses his brow. ‘They didn’t get far,’ he assures.

‘Far enough,’ Arthur counters. ‘I was worried.’

‘Nowt to worry about,’ Eames replies sleepily.

‘I always worry about you.’ 

‘Well, don’t.’ Eames scrubs his hand over his face. 

‘You could have died, Eames.’

‘Come on, Arthur. Please.’ Eames’ voice is strained. He closes his eyes and twists away from Arthur’s fingertips. ‘Good times only, remember?’

Arthur snares Eames’ arm and pulls him close. ‘Don’t you care?’

Eames’ breath hitches. ‘Course I do… but we both know how this ends, Arthur; let’s just enjoy it while it lasts.’ 

Arthur releases his grip on Eames and untangles himself from the soft cotton sheet twisted around his legs. Yanks it up to cover himself. He hears Eames sigh and turn over.

But Arthur can’t enjoy it -- can’t rest -- no matter how many delights of late summer there are to savour. His pulse flutters with anxiety rather than excitement every time Eames kisses his throat and more often than not he finds himself staring off into space wondering how he reached a fork in the road of his and Eames’ relationship without realising it. 

He decides to leave two days early. Eames lets him.

Arthur’s taxi announces its arrival with a stutter of beeps. ‘Arthur, I...’ Eames starts, trailing off when the taxi beeps again. ‘Will I see you?’

Arthur wants to say something corny like _in your dreams_ but settles on kissing Eames goodbye instead.

He waits for Eames to call. Waits months. Suffocates under the weight of the silence between them and thinks that he didn’t think it would end this way. 

*

Eames keeps busy. Keeps his distance. Plays Robin Hood in a Sicilian village by distributing a million euro he made ripping off a Cosa Nostra pretty boy who wanted a stolen Da Vinci but was too lazy to do the research. 

He skips out of Europe. He hears something about Arthur being in Paris but doesn’t risk dropping in. He flips a coin -- heads for Shanghai, tails for Seoul -- and soon finds himself drunk dialling Arthur on his thirty-ninth birthday from a room overlooking the Huangpu River.

‘Why the hell are you in Shanghai?’ Arthur yawns down the line. ‘And why are you hammered at eight o’clock?’

Eames looks out to the world below, marvelling at how it feels like they only spoke yesterday. ‘Celebrating your day of birth, obviously. Why did you answer my call at three in the morning?’ 

‘I always answer your calls, asshole.’ Eames hears the rustle of sheets over the line and thinks about the way Arthur’s body twists when he’s getting fucked. How his neck flushes when he gets all hot and bothered by Eames’ filthy mouth. 

‘Because you worry about me.’ Arthur hums a sleepy _mmm_ and Eames slurs, ‘Because you’re always worried about me.’

He hears Arthur sigh. ‘Is this going somewhere? I have a breakfast meeting.’

‘It’s easier for me not to worry about you, Arthur.’ Eames swallows the last of his whisky. 

‘I’m going to hang up now. Have a glass of water and sleep on your side, please.’

‘Arthur, I’m sorry.’ Eames bites his lip and rests his head against the window. ‘Truth is, it’s easier for me not to love you.’ 

The words slip out too easily and Eames waits for his world to end. Waits for the ceiling to collapse and rain down chunks of debris. Braces himself for the inevitable earthquake beneath him, and the fiery glow of meteors outside his window. 

Arthur’s voice creeps down the line like frost when he bites out, ‘I’m pleased that you decided to call me after a year to let me know it’s easier for you not to love me.’ There is a pause. An intake of breath. ‘I don’t have that luxury when it comes to you, Eames.’

‘Arthur --”

‘I’m tired. Goodnight.’

The line goes dead and the world keeps on turning.

*

They cross paths on a job a few months later. Arthur doesn’t bring up Shanghai and he can tell by the careful way Eames dances around him that he’s beyond grateful. 

Arthur isn’t a cruel man, and he means Eames no harm, but when he turns up at Eames’ hotel room after a date with an old acquaintance he knows in his heart that his motives aren’t innocent. If they were, he wouldn’t be leaning against the doorframe with his tie pulled low to show off the dark bloom of a bruise sucked into his throat. 

Eames lets him pass and Arthur toes his shoes off in the hall as the door closes softly behind him. He skips the pretence and sits on Eames’ half-made bed. He shrugs his jacket off, pulls his tie roughly and unbuttons his shirt while Eames watches. There’s a wounded look in his eyes that makes Arthur uneasy, and it only intensifies once he’s completely bare and spreading his legs. 

He doesn’t have to beckon or beg tonight. Eames gravitates to him effortlessly and Arthur strips him slowly and deliberately. Standing between his legs, Eames cups under Arthur’s chin and tilts his head back. ‘Is this how it ends?’ Arthur asks. ‘Or how it starts?’

When Eames pushes Arthur down onto his back instead of answering, Arthur thinks about leaving, but the press of Eames’ lips on his after so long apart is the burst of light in his existence he didn’t even realise was missing. It burns through the very core of him, has him wrapping his legs around Eames’ waist in a desperate bid to pull him closer and share in the sensation as if he might be able to transfer what he feels inside without having to utter those three worn words he’s kept caged inside for so long. 

Afterwards, when they’re both wet and gasping, Arthur tells himself he won’t overstay his welcome, that he’ll leave before Eames falls asleep and not wake up with his leg hanging off the edge of the mattress, Eames’ face mashed into his shoulder. It’s a comforting lie for Arthur to watch the clock by as Eames runs his fingers through his hair and rests his lips on his temple. 

When he feels Eames’ body relax into sleep Arthur realises he can withstand the cruelty to be right where he needs to be. 

*

_Spending this year at home_ texts Arthur a month before his fortieth birthday. 

_K pet_ Eames replies and leaves it at that.

 _That was an invitation, idiot_ is the reply that comes three days later. 

When Eames knocks on Arthur’s door wearing his Sunday best, he’s not expecting a woman in her mid-sixties to pull the door open with a smile and say, ‘Oh! You must be Jack! I’m Linda.’ Sure, Eames can be Jack if he has to be. ‘Arthur will be so glad you’re here.’

It’s early September in Toronto, and Eames tells himself it’s the seasonal humidity that’s making him hot under the collar and not his decision to finally follow the coordinates Arthur gifted him years ago. He leaves his suitcase in the foyer and follows Linda through the hallway. The comforting aroma of charcoal drifts through the house, reminding him of street vendors in Istanbul and bonfires in Kent. 

They find Arthur in the kitchen. He’s leaning against the worktop in soft-worn jeans, sipping a beer and laughing with a couple who wouldn’t look out of place in Vogue magazine. He’s rarely seen Arthur so engrossed in easy conversation, and he takes a moment to drink in the sight of him talking animatedly with his hands and laughing so that his eyes crease at the sides.

Arthur’s eyes slide to meet Eames’ but he doesn’t break his conversational stride. Eames doesn’t miss how Arthur’s mouth quirks into a knowing smile, though, or how his posture changes from relaxed to impatient.

‘Arthur!’ Linda calls before Eames can stop her. ‘Jack’s arrived.’

Arthur and the Vogues turn to him. ‘Jack,’ Arthur says, feigning surprise. ‘You made it.’

‘By some miracle,’ he says. Arthur walks over and pulls him into a hug. ‘Happy birthday, darling.’ 

It feels perfect to hold him in a room full of strangers and Eames itches to reach into his pocket and thumb the poker chip resting there but settles for squeezing Arthur’s shoulder instead. Arthur pulls away but keeps his hand resting on Eames’ shoulder to turn him to the others in the room. ‘You’ve met my mom, Linda,’ he says easily. Linda is fussing with a tray of food and waves when she hears her name. The Vogues are engrossed in their conversation and Arthur has to snap his fingers to get their attention. ‘Guys,’ he says, ‘This is Jack. Jack, my sister Emily and her husband Brad.’

‘Jack from work,’ Emily says. ‘Arthur talks about you, like, all the time.’ 

‘Does he?’ Eames asks.

‘He does,’ Arthur replies quickly, ‘but it’s all really bad stuff. Usually about how messy your desk is and how rude you are. You’re staying here, right? Come on, I made up a room for you.’

The room Arthur’s made up is his own and he quickly shows Eames around his house before leading him into his backyard. Arthur’s family mill around, catching up with each other while enjoying the midday sun. 

‘Have to be honest, pet,’ Eames says as he looks around. ‘I wasn’t expecting a family affair.’

‘So?’ Arthur grabs Eames a beer from a cooler and pops the cap off. ‘It’s my birthday gift to myself.’

‘What is?’ Eames asks. He takes the frosty bottle and presses the rim to his lips.

‘Having all the people I love under one roof.’ Arthur admits this so easily that Eames wonders if realises what he’s said. ‘By the way,’ Arthur says, lowering his voice, ‘they think we work for Interpol but feel free to improvise.’

So Eames does. He cups the side of Arthur’s face and takes a breath -- but it’s Arthur who leans in and presses their lips together. 

Somewhere in the distance, Eames hears Emily say _I knew it_ but all he can focus on is the aching tenderness blooming under his ribs and the slide of Arthur’s tongue against his own. Arthur pulls away and says, ‘Let’s keep it PG for now-- my nieces are here’ and Eames smiles against his mouth and nods. He knots his fingers with Eames and pulls him along. ‘Come meet my dad. If he looks pissed it’s only because he lost a bet to Emily.’

*

Arthur’s family stay late into the evening but depart before the night sets in. He’s tired, but not tired enough not to stand at his backdoor and quietly admire how perfect Eames looks lounging on a deckchair in his yard. Eames was a hit, of course, slipping into a persona of someone called Jack who was basically just Eames without the frills (and criminal past). Arthur’s mom laughed along with Eames’ half-truths about their jobs, and his dad asked a thousand tiresome questions that Eames’ answered with patience and edited-truths. 

‘I’ll clean up tomorrow,’ Arthur says, settling in a deckchair next to Eames. 

‘I’ll help.’ Eames rests his head against the back of the chair. ‘I’m afraid I broke the no gifting rule this year, pet.’ Arthur shifts in the chair to face him, and Eames continues -- ‘Do you know, we’ve known each other for two decades?’

‘More than aware.’

‘So many times over the years I’ve thought _maybe_ , you know. I mean really thought about it.’ Eames takes a breath and turns in his chair to face Arthur. ‘But every time I imagined asking you to stay, all I could think about was the look on your face when I took that bullet in Montreal, and the way I feel when I’m not with you. I was so preoccupied with losing you that I didn’t realise that I never really had you to lose.’ Eames hold out his upturned palm to offer a simple gold band resting in the centre. 

‘What are you doing?’ Arthur blurts out.

‘Going all in,’ Eames says earnestly. ‘You’re worth the risk, Arthur.’ 

‘Eames, we don’t have to —‘

‘I’m completely gone on you. Have been forever.’ Eames shuffles from his seat and drops down on one knee. ‘I’ve never even told you I love you.’

‘I know you do,’ Arthur manages. Of course, he’s known -- has _always_ known -- from the way Eames has always found him and opened up to him. Done anything to please him. 

But Arthur notices how Eames’ hand is shaking and it throws him completely: he’s watched Eames hand over forged passports to the military without so much as a tremor in his fingers, watched him grin his way into embassies and backrooms, so the thought of Eames’ being _nervous_ feels more foreign to him than being propositioned for marriage. 

The patio light glints off Eames’ eyes, now brimming with tears. ‘Eames,’ Arthur starts and he swears he sees Eames’ heart drop into his stomach. ‘Married couples are exempt from testifying against each other, right?’

Eames’ face softens and he breaks out into the most beautiful grin Arthur has ever seen. He slips the ring onto Arthur’s finger. ‘The _I love you_ was the actual gift, by the way.’ He raises Arthur’s hand to his lips and kisses the thin band on his finger. ‘This is just so everyone else knows you’re mine for good.’

Arthur rolls his eyes and nearly falls out of his chair when Eames pulls him across the gap to kiss him. 

It’s been ten years, but he thinks back to the wish he made in that hotel room in New Orleans and silently thanks whoever’s listening for going the extra mile to make good on it. 

**Author's Note:**

> I had intended to post this for JGL's birthday but failed miserably. HBD, dude.
> 
> *~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*
> 
> Title from _3WW_ by Alt-J
> 
> Summary quote from _Nara_ by Alt-J
> 
> (Please don't call the Alt-J police on me)


End file.
